


Starbright Wonderland (I Just Want to Believe)

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Babies, COE Fix-it, Emotional Trauma, F/M, Gen, M/M, Miracle Day Spoilers and References, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Drama, Timey-Wimey, WIP, badass Ianto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You’re human and you’re dead! You shouldn’t be here! You can’t be here! It’s impossible!” The irritating buzzing of the screwdriver resumes. </i>
</p><p>  <i>“You’d think a man like you would be used to impossible things by now, Doctor,” the man says... </i></p><p>Ianto Jones is an impossible man with an impossible story embarking on an impossible mission with an impossible madman and his impossible companion to reunite with his lover, another impossible man. And also maybe probably save the universe.</p><p>Rex Matheson is damaged. Jack Harkness is broken. Ianto Jones in an enigma. Koschei is lost. The Doctor is hopeless. Mickey is just along for the ride. Donna misses something she cannot even remember. Clara is confused. Rhys is learning the ropes. Gwen is contemplative. And Martha is awaiting the birth of her twins. </p><p>Anything could happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Through With Hopeless Wishing

**Author's Note:**

> Okay... So I was on the fast track to abandoning this but I decided to read over it and change it up a bit, in light of the 50th Anniversary. I'm probably not going to be including Day of the Doctor in this too much but who knows where things'll go. But I'm going to be re-writing and condensing what I have and hopefully adding more chapters...? Who knows. Also, another name change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-done first chapter. Please tell me if you see any major errors.

The man who raised Ianto Jones – he wouldn't go as far as to call him father – was a stern gentleman who attempted to instill two core principles. One, above all else, only believe in what you can see with your own eyes and feel with your own two hands. And two, always dress impeccably. The girl that Ianto Jones was raised to call his sister – though, perhaps, he wouldn't go as far as to call her such – taught him how to wish upon the stars. It was the last thing she ever taught him. Oftentimes, as a child, Ianto Jones would look out upon the vast expanse of the universe and wish that he was anywhere but Cardiff, anywhere but the Jones' Household – he wouldn't go as far as to call it home. Ianto wanted to believe in the impossible, to believe that a mere wish could deliver him from the torment of a drunken Efan Jones or save him from Rhiannon Jones' venomous teasing and painful neglect. It didn't take long for Ianto to realize that his saving grace would never come – he had to fight his way out.

He struggled through school, an average student, more by circumstance than anything else. It was hard to maintain good grades when homework had to be shirked off in favor of a few part times jobs to support Efan Jones' cheap wine habit and Rhiannon's college tuition – Efan wasn't going to pay it, after all. He'd been caught shoplifting once, more out of necessity than anything else; he didn't steal clothes or jewelry like his youthful compatriots, no, just enough food to keep his family – though he wouldn't go as far as to call them that, not anymore – from starving. He'd raised enough money to go to University, he had no real plans, he just wanted to leave. Efan could get drunk off the wages from his own retail job – some “master tailor” he was, and Rhiannon had long since dropped out of University, having acquired the “Mrs.” degree that had compelled her into further education in the first place. He was an average student there, too, the result of too little sleep and a late night bar-tending job which paid his way through. Efan died in his junior year, cirrhosis of the liver; he only attended the funeral because Rhiannon had guilted him into it.

By the time Ianto Jones was recruited by Torchwood, he had long since stopped believing in that which he could not see with his own eyes or touch with his own hands. That didn't last long.

Ianto Jones became a junior archivist; he was average at his job, really. He met Lisa Hallett, fell in love after their first date. The ring weighed heavy in the inner pocket of his suit jacket for months before he gathered up the courage to propose. She said yes. Everything was so wonderful and impossible and strange. That is, until the Battle of Canary Wharf. Until the Daleks and Cybermen and all the little things that seemed so impossible became oh so very real. And then Lisa – dear, sweet Lisa... She died. Or, was converted, only partially. Ianto thought he could save her, thought he could reverse the process. Thought that, maybe just this once, everything would turn out for the better and he could just be okay. Just this once. And, for the first time since he was a little boy, Ianto Jones stood out under the stars – feeling the world turning, hurtling through space beneath his feet, time creeping by, each and every second ticking by in tune with the beats of his heart – and he wished. He wished for Lisa to get better. For himself to be better. For the world to be okay. For the Daleks and the Cyberman to all just disappear and be forgotten. For everything to have just been a terrible dream. To wake up in the morning beside Lisa and get ready for another good if boring day as the junior archivist at a company that was decidedly nothing out of the ordinary. He wished to be and begin and end and for everything to just be right, oh so right. He wished for his life.

His wish was not granted. He packed everything he owned, all his wishes and dreams shoved into dusty cardboard boxes. He hid his dear sweet Lisa away. He moved back to the only place he knew, the one place he could never truly call home – Cardiff. Torchwood gave him a life and then stolen it away, It was only fair that it would be Torchwood that would return everything to some sense of normalcy. What was normalcy anymore, anyhow? He'd sough out the legendary Captain Jack Harkness – nothing like Yvonne Hartman – tried to gain his favor; his coat really was quite nice. Pterodactyls are the way to a man's heart it seems. He's sunk into the job – tea boy, back-up support. Yes sir, no sir, how do you take your coffee? Grinned and bore the brunt of his colleagues insults. Stood in silence, cleaning up the messes of the reckless members of Torchwood 3. Doled out much more Ret-con than is probably strictly healthy; what kind of secret government organization drives around in an SUV with their logo painted all over it anyway? He stood in the shadows and watched everything unfold before he – Owen and Suzie fucking, Suzie going batshit insane over the fucking glove – Ianto supposed he should have predicted something like that would happen – Gwen and Ret-con and Suzie's death and Gwen swooping in as her replacement. All the while, he became the secretive little outcast - fetch me a cuppa, would ya'? - never really fitting in with the group. Owen joked often that the only reason he was there was because of his pert little ass – Jack really would fuck everything that moves, huh? Even a quiet little butler like Ianto Jones. Ianto gritted his teeth but kept on. It was for Lisa, after all.

But Lisa couldn't be saved. The Cyberman part of her took over, Jack put her down like a dog. Ianto hated him for it. But then the Brecon Beacons happened. The cannibals happened. Suzie came back to life and almost killed Gwen and then became dead once more. For good this time, Ianto had desperately hoped. Jack was there. Jack comforted him through everything, not just a good leader but a good friend. A niggling something in the back of Ianto's head told him that it was wrong – that Jack was wrong. Ianto supposed it was all the acidic little messages that Efan drilled into him about sin and how sick it was that a man could fuck another man. He ignored it, fell into Jack's bed and Jack's arms. All the while, his fob watch ticked on; there's a lot of things you can do with a fob watch, after all.

Jack died. Ianto didn't bother wishing on the stars. Ianto felt as if, for the umpteenth time in his short life, the little ember that kept him alive was snuffed out, replaced by a yawning chasm of dark nothingness which consumed everything until all that remained was a biting little voice which told Ianto that he'd never be good enough and he might as well just go and end it.... Jack didn't stay dead. He brought Ianto back with a kiss and then ripped it him away again. Ianto was bleeding on the inside.

Then Jack came back, a changed man, different, older if that was possible. Jack already seemed so very old. He'd embraced Ianto – force him to love, to dream, to wish. Everyone died – Owen, Tosh, Jack, Owen again and Jack a million times more. The Earth was stolen and then returned. Ianto's love grew as the impossible folded out before his very eyes. He wished upon the stars that everything would be okay and his watched ticked by, constant as a heart beat. Then had come the 456.

Wishing didn't do much of anything, Ianto supposed.

***

“Oh where to go next! There are some many places to go, Clara – the third moon of Abydos! Greatest cup of tea in the universe, I’ll tell you! Ooh, or how about Enlandia? Nah too much water, I think… Or, I know! Cheem! Tree people, Clara, you’ll love them! I knew a tree princess once, you know… Summer on Umbeka –” the Doctor riddles off, fiddling with the control console of his beloved TARDIS, adjusting the dematerialization circuits and the external vortex dampener nobs.

“Doctor!” Clara interrupts, a lilting urgency in her voice.

“The winters last for years, but Umbekans sure do know how to have fun in the sun…”

“Doctor!”

“Oh, no, I know – Barcelona! Not the city Barcelona, though. The planet – dogs with no noses, Clara! Think about it! It’s marvelous… I always meant to go but things always tend to go a bit wonky…”

“Doctor! Who is that?”

“Who is who, Clara?” the Doctor asks, turning to catch a glimpse of the petite, red-clad brunette. The young companion is pointing off toward the side of the console room; the doctor’s too-old eyes follow the imaginary line Clara’s pointing finger makes, connecting with a male figure with lounges languidly against the stair rail.

If it wasn't for the fact he is horribly out of place, the man seems rather in-place, as it were. Average in a way that is extraordinary. He's brunet, standing at about six foot even – clean shaven and handsome, though perhaps not in the most conventional sense. He's the “boy next door” with a little extra: firm, square jaw, a prominent forehead, and ears a little too big for his head (not that the Doctor is one to talk, considering the proportions of some of his previous incarnations). He's fairly attractive by human standards, regardless. Impeccably dresses, too, as though he's about to attend a business meeting or, perhaps, is a British super spy. Either, or. He's attired in a pitch black waistcoat over a smart pink button-up and a tasteful black silk tie, coupled with slim, tailored pin-striped black suit trousers and expensive Italian leather shoes. A matching suit jacket is slung lazily over the man's right forearm. His head is casually bowed, revealing nothing of his countenance and his blue eyes are focused on his deft fingers as the fiddle with the chain of a fetching silver fob watch. He seems to pay no mind to the roving eyes of his Timelord host.

“Impossible!” the Doctor says, stalking toward the nonchalant figure. “You can’t be here!” His words are emphasized by gesticulation, his hands flailing about him as he speak

The man looks up, his eyes peircing into the good Doctor’s.

“And yet, here I am,” the man says, humor evident in the soft rhythms of his Welsh accent.

“But you can’t be!” the Doctor says. The man raises his eyebrow.

“Obviously that is not the case,” he says, straightening to a full standing position, slipping the fob watch into the pocket of his waistcoat. He glances in Clara's direction, slipping her a tiny facsimile of a grin.

“Do you know him?” Clara asks, shrinking back slightly, eyes leveling with the strange man and her Doctor.

“Yes…” the Doctor says. He leans in, invading the man's invisible personal space bubble – what is personal space, anyway – to examine him closer. The Doctor is so close that his nose nearly brushes against the other man's; his shoulders square as he assumes a posture of semi-dominance and full scientific curiosity. “But he can’t be here! How are you here!”

“Wouldn’t you like to know…” the man says, his lips stretched into an all-out smirk. There is a brief pause, accompanied by a miniscule chuckle, as if he is privy to the punch-line of some grand joke. He adds, “Sir.”

“You’re dead!” the Doctor says, brandishing his sonic screwdriver. The electronic buzzing of the device fills the air and the soft green glow it emits traces gingerly over the contours of the stranger’s immaculately dressed body. The Doctor shines the device in the man's eyes and does an impressive little figure-eight about the man's chest and abdomen, before pulling it away. He stares unblinking at his screwdriver, and, shaking it with the flick of the wrist, he telescopes it to examine the readings and then adjust the settings before repeating the familiar routine.

“I don’t feel dead, sir,” the man says, his smirk withstanding the Doctor's strange ministrations, as though he's used to such treatment. He reaches a hand out to pluck the active sonic from the ancient alien. He proceeds to casually flip the precious device in the air, catching it rightside-up with relative ease. He telescopes it and flicks it in the direction of the Doctor. “Alien tech… heh. Whirling Wand, I think I’ll call it.”

“That is not a toy!” the Doctor huffs, snatching the sonic from the stranger’s grasp. He ignores Clara's little giggle in the background. “And it's a Sonic Screwdriver, thank you very much!” The stranger shrugs a shoulder and puts on a mask of relative disinterest. If the Doctor hears the muffled “Whirling Wands sounds cooler,” he doesn’t react, instead continuing with his tirade against the man, aggravation and confusion flooding his voice and demeanor. He leans forward, maintaining steady eye contact and an unflappable scowl. “You’re human and you’re dead! You shouldn’t be here! You can’t be here! It’s impossible!” The irritating buzzing of the screwdriver resumes.

“You’d think a man like you would be used to impossible things by now, Doctor,” the man says, bringing up a hand to cease the roaming of the intrusive universal tool.

“But the 456!”

“Indeed, sir,” the man says, “I seem to recall you being unavailable…”

The Doctor has the decency to look guilty. He’d been a bit selfish after losing Donna, petulant… It hadn’t been the best time in his lives, he’d been so callous… so stupid. He’d ignored the terror taking place on Earth, the planet he’d sworn to protect, to save. He’d been gallivanting across the universe, partying and ignoring every little twinge of pain that encroached upon his hearts. He’d even fancied himself a god for a bit – called himself _Timelord Victorious._ Some god he was – he could change the course of history, play around on Mars, save lives that needn’t be saved… But he couldn’t even face an old friend and save the children of earth from low-life drug addicts. And then he’d had the brilliant idea… the gall to ply a grieving once-friend with promises of a meaningless one night stand with a handsome if naïve stranger before he went on his merry way. Some goodbye that was. Just another of his infinite regrets, a drop in the ocean. And with the cracks… no one on Earth remembered the terror of the Daleks or the Cybermen, spacecrafts in the sky and snowing debris, the Master Race, Torchwood, or even the 456 which had destroyed the psyche of a certain immortal and nearly deprived the Earth of its children.

“You never were around, were you Doctor?” the man asks, starting on the guilty Timelord, “Savior of Earth whose never really there at all. Not when the world really needs you, anyway. Not there for the invasion of the 456, or even the clean up at Canary Wharf. And where were you for Miracle Day, Doctor? All the world immortal, humans burned alive… and yet, no Doctor in sight.”

“I-…”

No one remembers anyway, he wanted to say. Earth recovered, people forgot. Humans were truly extraordinary, able to just up and forget the terrible things that had happened to them. Bury everything under mountains of denial, as if everything had been just a collective dream. As if the terrors suffered by humanity during Miracle Day or any of the alien invasions - even prior to the Pandorica - had just been mass hallucinations, product of overactive imaginations or LSD in the water. The overflow camps had been disbanded and destroyed; the world governments, advised by UNIT, were quick to explain away the brief immortality of humanity as the affects of a mutated fungus which had apparently infected major grain crops. It was a medical miracle or a hallucination – either way, a mere blip in the system. By year's end, no one really talked about those weeks where human beings were categorized and burned alive, nor about the people lost, or the vast corruption the Miracle had inspired. No one talked about Oswald Danes, the pedophile who had become an international hero. No one remembered the death of Vera Juarez, which had pitted citizens against their governments. All was forgotten. The human race was good at forgetting, at healing; they were resilient, humans – always evolving, moving on in constant strokes. They’d inherit the universe. They’d survive.

The Doctor doesn’t say anything about Miracle Day, in the end. Torchwood, or the ragtag remnants of it, had handled it. The CIA had handled it. Humanity had handled it. Then they had just moved on. They didn’t need to be rescued. The Doctor had been too busy, really; and Miracle Day was really just a much overlooked facet of human history, barely recorded. It hardly mattered in a few thousand years. The Doctor had his own problems to work out; he couldn’t be there to baby humanity forever…

Instead, a steady grin spreads over the Doctors lips, not quite extending to his eyes. He might not always be there when he’s needed, but he sure does love a mystery – an adventure. He grabs the stranger’s shoulders, drawing him in closer.

“Aren’t you an interesting one, Ianto Jones.”

“Of course, Sir,” Ianto Jones says, the seriousness of the moment lost, a spark of mirth evident in his voice. He wiggles away from the Doctor, ducking under his arm with practiced ease and makes toward Clara.

“Hello there, Miss Oswald!” He says, extending a hand toward the thus far speechless companion.

She grabs his hand giving it a little shake. She appears rather dumbfounded. “How did you -”

“Spoilers,” he whispers with a little wink before parting from her. He turns on his heel, spinning about the console, tapping at the controls as though he’s been at it his whole life. Perhaps he has been, considering his extensive experience with Torchwood and general alien tech. Even something as advanced as the TARDIS is no more complex than a Rubik’s Cube in the Welshman’s hands. The TARDIS practically purrs under his care. She _likes_ him – her timeless voice purrs through his mind, pulsing in beat wit his heart as his fingers fly with ease over the Gallifreyan characters on the destination manual input and his eyes scan the circular on the display screens, reading them almost as if they were plain English – as if the TARDIS were translating for him.

“And what do you think you’re doing, Ianto Jones?” the Doctor asks, half awed, half indignant. How is it that this mere human – one that’s supposed to be _dead_ , no less, is inspiring such loyalty in his beloved blue box?

“Piloting,” Ianto says with a self-indulgent chuckle, pulling back the lever to release the parking break. “Now, moving on to more important questions…” Ianto breaks away from the console, returning to Clara's side. She smiles up at him, accepting the man that frustrates her Doctor so.

“And what might that be, Mr. Jones?” she asks conspiratorially.

“Call me Ianto,” the former teaboy says with a wink, “How do you like your coffee?”


	2. Immortality Burns a Hole in My Heart but at Least I'm Still Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rex Matheson has trouble adjusting but really he's just a bit confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-written.

Suffice to say, Rex Matheson is not having a good day. To be quite honest, Rex Matheson has been embroiled in a perpetual bad day ever since he got involved in the newly reformed Torchwood Institute, of which he is apparently a founding member. After Juarez’s death and then Esther’s... and the whole immortality thing. Rex just misses normal fucking days – days without saving the world from alien invasions; days without getting shot and killed and yet, somehow living to tell the tale, spring back up as though it was nothing but a minor scratch. Dying... Well it certainly doesn't feel like a minor scratch. 

Bullets piercing through skin, hotly spiraling through muscle and splintering bone, ripping through organs and then out the other side. Organs collapsing in on themselves, blood seeping through clothing and flooding his lungs. Tissues and ligaments knitting slowly back together, cells regenerating at breakneck pace, wounds pulling closed and disappearing. It is practically incomprehensible; Rex wouldn’t believe it if he didn’t live through it every fucking day of his life. But after dying and then coming back to life ten fucking times, it was undeniable. Rex Matheson is immortal.

He hadn’t quite wanted to accept that fact, his immortality. After that first gasp of air, after Charlotte had shot him at Esther’s funeral, heated thoughts had raced through Rex’s head. He’d already lost two people who he had loved, seen them torn from him right before his eyes, and he’d been powerless to stop their demises. How many people, he wondered, would fall; how many more loved ones would he lose? His friends, his family dying… And he a constant, never dying. Just soldiering on. How many millennia would pass before he withered away or was simply forgotten. A piss poor legend, a shell of a man. In the unpleasant weeks following the revelation of his inability to die, Rex tried to do just that. The first time, when the bullet pierced the back of his skull, spewing out gray matter and white hot bits of bone and tissue, Rex had honestly thought he might actually die. He closed his eyes and waited for it. And that sweet darkness did come, for a moment or two. But it was all for naught as the air rushed back into his lungs and the rasping sound of his own harsh, heated pants filled his ears.

Afterward, he’d taken to dying as a bit of a sport – how many ways could he die? He was dying to feel; he was dying for amusement, for the sheer novelty of it all. Because he had nothing better to do and dying for that rush of pain and sheer emotion was better than living numb in the wake of all that had happened. He died once for Juarez, in a particular moment of mourning, the scent of burnt flesh filling his nostrils for the first time since the overflow camps had closed their doors and torn down their vile ovens. Was it his flesh burning or Juarez’s? And he’d died once for Esther, teetering lamely over the edge of a modestly sized skyscraper. It felt like flying in those seconds before he hit the ground. He could have loved her, he thinks, as the wind of his descent coils around his arms. Loved her for real – perhaps as a little sister, a friend. Maybe more. He doesn’t really know. He thinks that perhaps, somewhere, she too is flying. She with wings, silver in the sunshine. But as he hit the ground and his life was clumsily expelled from him, he dismissed the thought. There is no such thing as angels.

As time passed however, the thrill of it wore off and Rex begrudgingly accepted his predicament and settled uneasily into the regular ebb and flow of life – a life that was much changed thanks to Miracle Day and the events that followed. No longer was Rex a seasoned agent of the CIA, heading operations against terrorist organizations and the Families. Now he was just Rex Matheson, the United States’ liaison to and key field operative of the newly reformed Torchwood Institute; the rebuilding of which hitherto being the primary cause of his aforementioned current bad day. He’d blame it all on World War II but the smug bastard hadn't grown on him.

Speaking of the fellow immortal, Jack also seems rather despondent as of late. As long as Rex had known him, Jack was nothing short of an insatiable flirt. An aggressive one even. When Jack saw a man, woman, alien that he found attractive (or though would be good in bed), he was always ready and eager to flirt, wink, and charm his way into the sack, come hell or high water. Very few even considered rejecting World War II’s advances and Rex was certainly in the minority in this regard. So when, over the past few weeks, Jack’s regular stream of conquests had slowed to a mere out-of-habit trickle, Rex found himself actually maybe a little bit worried about the guy. Perhaps he was just too focused on getting the new and improved Torchwood up and running to have time for a personal life. After all, it is a massive undertaking. Before Miracle Day, the only two remaining members of the clandestine institute had been underground and the Torchwood itself had been obliterated and erased. Rebuilding it to its former glory is, well, exhausting. Finding new headquarters, rebuilding the archives, hiring temps that won’t ask too many questions… Not to mention dealing with the constant flow of alien visitors, both benign and dangerous to humanity and the prosperity and future of Earth. If one more Blowfish asshole… Anyway.

But, even then, Rex has never seen Jack so silent…

Rex’s musings are broken by the shrill screech of his cell phone and the rough earthquake of vibration it causes against the massive stacks of paperwork atop Rex’s makeshift desk. _Interviews_. Rex had spent the past God knows how long interviewing possibly the most inept human beings on the face of the planet. Most of them were UNIT soldiers looking to make a career change. And, unfortunately, Rex found most of them to be vastly under-qualified for the positions they had applied for. They needed medics, tech analysts, archivists, and support staff, not gun toting jarheads. Rex lets out a self-deprecating chuckle – they already had enough of those. But… not many of the applicants took the initiative to call Rex. He finds himself a bit intrigued and hastily mashes – perhaps with a bit too much force – the answer call button of his touchscreen phone.

“Hello?”

“ _Is the Rex Matheson of Torchwood,”_ a female voice asks, emotion undetectable.

“Yes. Who is this?” Rex asks, rubbing his temple with his free hand.

“Look up.”

“Ma’am, I don’t have time for games,” Rex says, gravel in his voice.

“Just look up.” Rex groans. His eyes drift a fraction of an inch upward, meeting with the coal black eyes of a young dark-skinned man. The man is dressed head-to-toe in a black uniform of sorts- it looks military if not for the leather biker jacket and charcoal beanie. He’s handsome and bearded – not Rex’s type, being a man and all, but still – and he has a rifle casually slung across his shoulder. There is a bright, toothy grin pasted across his face. He holds out a single gloved hand.

“Rex Matheson of Torchwood?” The man asks, mirroring the woman's inquiry. He waves his hand inches in front of the older man’s nose.

Rex’s gun is out of his holster and pointed square between the stranger’s eyes faster than the other man can blink. His phone drops unceremoniously to the top of his paperwork stack. The faint sound of the woman cursing can be heard over the line.

“Who the hell are you and how the fuck did you get in here?”

The man straightens his back, heaving out a sigh. He licks his lips.

“Well, y'see --”

“Look who it is! Mickeysmith!”

Before the steanger can so much as answer, Jack bursts into the room like a bouncing goddamn _puppy_.

He's got a beaming smile carved into his face, perhaps for the first time in atleast a freaking week. He drags the younger man away from Rex’s cocked gun and into a great big hug, enveloping “ _Mickeysmith”_ in his arms and drawing him half into his great coat.

“Mickey Mickey Mickey! How’ve ya’ been?”

Mickey gently pries Jack’s arms off him, bringing a gloved hand to the immortal’s shoulder. If it’s possible, he’s grinning wider than before. “You heard about the wedding, yeah?”

Jack’s expression sobers.

“Yeah… sorry I couldn’t make it…”

“I understand, Jack. You had your own shit to deal with. I’m really sorry about everything that happened, for what it’s worth.”

Jack waves his hand dismissively, a faint smile retracing across his lips. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Bygones and all that… So, how are you and Martha?”

“Well, you know same old, same old,” Mickey says with a slight shrug.

“Excuse me,” Rex says, interrupting the conversation, “Would one of you please tell me what the fuck is going on here? World War II! Who the fuck is this and how did he get in here?”

“Oh, uhm,” Jack starts, waving his hand in the general direction of his old friend. “This is Mickey Smith we’ve known each other for… God, years. Since 2005 for you, was it…?”

Mickey nods, “Seems like such a long time… fuck, centuries for you, innit?”

“Something like that,” Jack says, bobbing his head absently.

“Okay, got that,” Rex growls, “ _Mickeysmith_. Now how in hell did he find his way into a _top secret_ government base?”

Mickey shrugs once more – gesture of the day, it seems. There’s a twinkle in his eyes that makes Rex a bit uneasy.

“Walked in right through the front door, obviously,” the younger mans says, adjusting his grip on his rifle. He continues.

“Heard ya’ll had some job openings, figured that there might be a little more job security here than in freelance work. Gotta family to provide for, don’t I. Wife’s pregnant, twins.”

Jack makes a choked sound in the background. Rex’s gaze drifts toward the older immortal. He’s full on 1000 watt beaming.

“Martha’s pregnant!”

“ _Yes! Now pick up the phone Jack!”_ a voice calls from Rex’s desk. Jack scrambles to pick it up, jamming the primitive twenty-first century tech against his ear.

“Martha! What’s this I hear about babies? Why didn’t you tell me?” Jack babbles.

“ _And hello to you to,_ _Captain_ _Jack Harkness,”_ Martha says, her familiar voice curling into Jack’s ear. _“And you never call, how am I supposed to tell you important things like little baby Ianto and Rosie?”_

Jack's voice catches, his eyes glazing over.

“Ianto?”

“Mm. Ianto Smith-Jones. I think he’d be proud. His namesakes gonna be born in just a few months… speaking of which, Jack. I seem to find myself a bit out of work at the moment, with the whole being too pregnant to hunt aliens proper and as a doctor, one experienced at xenobiology of all things, I was wondering if maybe I could take over – at least until the twins are born – as Torchwood’s new medic. I hear you’re putting everything back together, hence the impromptu phone call and, of course Mickey. If you’re willing, we’d both like to work with you again. You’ve made quite the impression, y’know that Jack.”

Jack nods knowing full well that the other former companion cannot see the gesture. His mind reels, synapses stumbling over the news. Ianto Jones. His darling Ianto Jones, the love of his life that never – He frowns, shifting his focus; that line of thought will do him no good. And yet, little baby Ianto Smith-Jones... He'll never know the man who ought to be his uncle. He'll hear stories, sure – Ianto Jones, the man who gave his life twice to save the world, who denied his own happiness to seal the Cardiff Rift... The man who loved with all his soul and never expected anything in return. His Ianto, a year gone. Ianto Jones. Wonderful, beautiful Ianto; more than a tea-boy, more than anyone will ever truly know.

A single tear streaks down Jack's stubble-laden cheek – Ianto, dearly deparated, never, ever forgotten. Oh Ianto – only to be hastily wiped away by the back of Jack's hand.

“ _Jack?”_ Martha calls over the phone line, her voice brimming with concern over Jack’s silence.

“Hm? Oh yeah, yeah. That sounds great! Better than great!” There’s that grin again, wide as it’s always been, “I’ve missed you Martha. You don’t even know how much I’ve missed you.”

“Oi! What about me, Captain,” Mickey calls from behind the original immortal. Jack turns his head to the alien hunter, his bright blues shining. He pooches his lips before dragging them into a lazy smirk.

“You too, babe.”

“Oi, Jack! Stop flirting with my husband and let me in! It’s freezing out here!”

***

Rex wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting. It certainly wasn't a petite young woman with her hair in braids. He'd expected – glasses, maybe? A lab coat? Hugely pregnant, perhaps, given all the baby talk... And honestly, Torchwood wasn't any place for babies (Anwen withstanding), much too dangerous! But, whatever, if Jack and this woman thought it to be alright than Rex supposes he'll concede on that front.

Regardless, he wasn't expecting a young, dark-skinned woman with her hair piled in braids, an honest-to-God utility belt strapped across her hips, clad in a red leather jacket that looks like it'd seen better days and combat boots. And... what kind of gun is that, holstered at her hip? It certainly isn't terrestrial, that's for sure.

The woman – one Martha Smith-Jones – grins, one hand on the bulge of her protruding belly, one hand extended in greeting.

“Hello, Rex Matheson,” she says simply as he takes her hand, giving it a firm if brief shake. He nods.

“You're our new medic, so I hear? Jack seems to trust you but I'm not sure I can.”

Martha's eyes meet his.

“I understand, Mr. Matheson. You've got to be thorough with these kinds of things.”

“What are your qualifications, Mrs. Smith-Jones?” Rex's voice is void of any betraying characteristics.

“Officially, MD, a licensed surgeon. Off the record – UNIT. I was a highly skilled officer, medical director in a few strictly confidential operations and projects. I helped save the world a time or two. The usual, I'm sure you've figured that out by now. I met Mickey, settled down. Well, if you can call freelance alien hunting and extraterrestrial witness protection settling down... And here I am! S'not my first go-round with Captian Jack or the infamous Torchwood, we did some traveling together, with a mutual friend a few years back and the Pharm incident with the old team...” She sobers a bit, “Anyway, obviously being out in the field isn't really an option at the moment so here I am!”

Rex gives an appreciative nod and a little half smile.

“I suppose if you can deal with World War II than you're a pretty alright girl. Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you, Mr. Matheson,” Martha says, making her way to her new office-slash-examination room. She looks over her shoulder, making eye contact with the older man. “And, please, don't call me 'girl,' I assure you, I am a capable grown woman.”

 


	3. The Cogs Stick but I'll Keep on Ticking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donna Noble knows something is missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited.

Donna Noble was broke and divorced. It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. She was supposed to be _happy_. Content, barefoot and pregnant, perhaps. But Shaun had left. Shaun had left, taking with him – his name and half the lottery winnings that should have meant a bright future for the young couple. The young family. _Family_. The word was like a punch in the gut to Donna Noble, formally Donna _Temple-_ Noble. She's longed for a happy marriage, a big family with a carload of kids, a picket fence, maybe a little dog – she wasn't quite sold on the idea – but no.

They'd tried. For months, they'd tried. They tried to be normal, to be put together, prim and proper, to be a family; But that little blue dash glared at her. Over and over, failed attempt after failed attempt. And, as the months droned on, Donna withdrew, consumed with a strange obsession. There was something wrong with her, Shaun said, a disease twisted up in Donna's gut and Donna's brain. Donna longed for the universe, all the stars in sky, the fantastic worlds beyond the scope of human imagination... She dreamt of leaving behind the only world she'd ever know to travel the universe, of all things. She wasn't an astronaut. Hell, she'd never even flown in an airplane. She was just Donna Temple-Noble – former temp and current housewife. Nothing special. Yet... there was always the little niggling feeling buzzing in the back of her skull, telling her – shouting at her – that she _wasn't_ just a temp from Chiswick or a housewife. She was something so much more. she was Donna Noble, a woman of vast importance, unrealized, buried. Buried under what? Donna didn't know. She _couldn't_ know. And as the little blue dashes piled up, Donna seemed to waste what, staring out at those twinkling stars, just wondering. At least, that's what Shaun said. She couldn't much help it though – she just knew that she was meant for something more. Something grand.

But she shoved that to the wayside, forcing the torrent of thoughts and feelings down. She shoved the overwhelming sense of sheer wrongness down, all for Shaun. For Shaun and their normal, happy family and the baby. The baby that would never come. She thought she was pregnant once, thanked the stars and the heavens and the little feeling coursing through her brain for the little red plus. But the joy shrunk as soon as it came. They’d never have a family and as that thought drilled further and further into Donna’s psyche, she could have sworn that once upon a time, she had a family. More than just her mother and grandfather and Shaun, there had once been a man she loved – a brother women whose faces she could not see but who felt distinctly like sisters and a love of this beautiful _presence_ that she couldn't quite place. And as time went on, Donna found herself more often than not, lost her her fantasies – the world of her stranger-brother and her faceless sisters and the her-but-not – staring out at the stars as though they would solve all her problems, tell her what she was missing, how to get back home. Tell what she did wrong to lose it all, to have her left here, with the stranger she married and the life she once longed for but now wished to be rid of. A loveless marriage, a barren womb, an all-encompassing inability to properly love the man she promised herself to, unable to give him the family that would keep them together.

They stopped talking eventually – the blue dashes became daggers, a death sentence raining down upon the shambles of their marriage. It's no wonder that Shaun up and left one day, packing his bags, leaving naught but divorce papers and a miniscule handwritten goodbye note in his wake.

_“_ _I don_ ’ _t know who you are. I don’t think I ever did.”_  

It’s not like Donna blames him for leaving. She anticipated it, prepared herself for it. She really couldn’t bring herself to care all that much about it, even. After all, how could he love her if she wasn’t open and honest with him? How could she be honest with her husband if she really, truly didn’t even know herself. She couldn’t remember herself. She was missing.

***

The day Shaun leaves, Donna sits up in the attic staring out the window, unblinking. In her fingers she holds an old fob watch that he grandfather had given her that Christmas. She strokes it absently with her pale fingers, flicking it open and closed as she stares into the darkness, into the sparkling abyss of the unknown universe. Sobs rattle through her lungs but she can’t quite place why she is crying. She just doesn’t understand any of it. She can’t understand why she’s crying because there’s a chunk of her soul, of her heart, her brain, her mind, missing missing, missing. The fob watch ticks in time with her tears. The stars are blurred by the little silver droplets that cling to her eyelashes and mascara streaks down her cheeks.

And not for the first time she wonders, why.

Why why why.

Why does it feel as though something has left her, as though she is no longer complete?

Why is she broken?

Why must she long for something that simply does not exist?

And it hurts. It hurts so much to feel as though she just does not belong.

She’s been crammed into a life that doesn’t match the ones in her dreams; she’s been pulled apart at the seams, ripped into tiny itty bitty little Donna pieces and sewn back together. And the sheer wrongness of it is simply killing her.

She tugs at the chain of the fob watch, twisting it tightly about her fingers. It cuts off the circulation to her fingertips, dying them purple momentarily before she unwinds the chain and then repeats the process. She bites her tongue to stop from screaming, the sharp tang of blood rushing through her mouth. He nails bite into the metal of the watch and the skin of her left hand. The pain of it is nothing compared to the pain of the emptiness that resonates through the cavity of her seemingly equally empty chest, which heaves up and down as she squeezes her eyes shut to block out the pain the stars cause her.

They’re calling, whispering sweet nothings and harsh promises in her ears. And she can’t block them out. They drill in, icy fingers swirling about the gray matter, playing around with what ought not be played with. Ice drifts sluggishly though her veins, pumped by a lethargic, broken heart. It’s chased by a fire which burns through her nerve endings and forces itself up the column of her throat. She forces down and gag and curls further into herself, clutching the fob watch with such pressure that she swears it might give way under the grip of her shaking digits and sweaty palms. The pain in her mind is nearly tangible, real, wracking through her whole being like a tsunami of sweet torture.

“Save me,” she stutters out, whispering it over and over and over like a mantra, as though her hero, the faceless man of her dreams, will swoop down from the stars and do just that.

Save her. Save her from the void of her mind and the pain that is so very real and yet so obviously imagined. It’s not real. None of it is real. Not the pain or the flashes across her synapses, glimpses of forgotten dreams. Forgotten worlds. Forgotten memories.

They can’t be memories, she thinks, trying and failing to calm her breathing. Too fantastic to be real.

Donna is just Donna. She’s nothing special. Just a foolish woman with a too, too active imagination. And yet the images roll in unbidden. Bits of pieces of red and silver that she knows are not her own but which she longs for anyway, like a far, far away home that she will never have the chance to know. The vast whirlwind of a hot-warm-perfect vortex that flies in and out of her psyche – truly, truly home.

And a house.

No not a house, too small and too vast. And the voice of it rattles gently in her ears like love-hope-happiness. And the faceless brother who grabs on and hugs her like there is nothing left in the universe but them. Best friends, no one else understands but them. They’re perfect together, so very perfect, companions with the vast, unending knowledge of the universe that piles on and on, crushing but warm and just so _right_. So very right. As though without this knowledge, nothing can ever be right. Nothing will ever be right again.

Dashes of color claw at her, sound-noise-love-hate-warm-heat-screaming. She’s screaming. It feels as though lightning has struck her body and she's shaking and so very calm, so very at peace.

And the wrong, the wrong that fills her very being, fills her up to the very brim, is overflowing, spilling out onto the floor around her like a tap left on much too long.

And there’s this light. This beautiful, perfect, right right right light that’s just… just who she is. She just is. She is. She is.

And the pain rushes out with the wrong. Her skin stings as though she has been electrocuted and her mouth feels like cotton and the fob watch in her hands buzzes happily, as though it is saying hello.

And that’s impossible, Donna knows. Fob watches can’t be _happy._ They can’t be anything – they’re fucking fob watches for Rassilion’s sake.

_Rassilion_? Where did that come from?

And it’s just so perfect and she feels so whole and there’s a golden light which dances before her eyes, blazing across her electric fingertips, rattling the watch in her grasp until it’s literally dancing. And for the first time in as long as she can remember, Donna feels  _right_.

Her mind is awash with the universe, secrets buzzing light speed between her ears. She catches her eyes in the antique silver mirror that lays abandoned against the wall of the attic, half covered with a dusty powder blue sheet.

They sing in amber.

Her fingers tap absently against the bright metal of the fob watch, tracing the circular etchings which are new and brilliant and so very right. And an honest smile pulls against her pink lips.

“Oh Doctor, you naughty, naughty Martian,” she breathes. “What a clever alien. Oh there’s so much to do, so much to see. But first…”

She shoves the fob watch into the back pocket of her jeans, switching it for the old flip phone that she never got around to replacing with something more technologically advanced. It’ll do for now – there are upgrades to come, though. Ideas buzz before her eyes in beautiful circular runes and statistics. She punches in digits that come to her as quickly as her own name. It rings four times before a gruff American voice comes over the line.

“Who is this,” the voice demands. It’s certainly not what she was expecting. A little too deep, not flirtatious enough.

“Uh, yes,” she begins, her brain working at furious pace, trying to ascertain whether or not she has made some sort of mistake. Nope. Not possible. Her brain is infallible. She presses on.

“Is there a Jack Harkenss there?” she asks, twirling a flame red lock lazily with her pale fingers. There’s a strange little grunt on the other side of the line.

“Yea. How the fuck did you get this number, ma’am?”

“Ooh, ma’am! Haven’t been called that it a while. Makes me feel kinda… old y’know. But this is Jack’s phone, isn’t it? I know I typed in the numbers right. I’m never wrong. Well, I suppose that’s not really the case. I could be pretty wrong. But it’s unlikely, y’know. Statistical probability….”

“Oi, World War II! There’s some crazy broad on the phone for you!”

“Hello?” Jack’s voice comes, a relief.

“Ah. Captain Jack Harkness, just the man I wanted to see. Er, talk to, I guess. Anyway. Do you still run that Torchwood whatsit or whatever of yours? I seem to remember you being a little understaffed… And seeing as how I’m the best temp in Chiswick and also maybe possibly a time lady… that’s a bit fuzzy, honestly… How’s about you get to offering me a job, pretty boy?”

“…Donna?”


	4. I Swear I'm (not) Okay, I'll Promise I'm (not) Going to be Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is a lie. But at least the lie is comforting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd  
> Look, edits

It starts with spider-webbing cracks. Tiny. Miniscule.

It’s so silent and so very, very dark. There is no light. There is no sound. He drums his fingers in a familiar rhythm – _dadadadum, dadadadum, dadadadum_ – but nothing comes of it. There's cotton is his brain – in his mouth-eyes-ears; his nerve ending are numb. Is mind is numb, void of everything save the crushing weight of absolute nothingness compressing him, forcing the air from his lungs. It is as though he is underwater, drowning, clinging desperately to the last dregs of oxygen and yet, so very painfully alive. Each passing breath becomes more and more difficult. He's choking. And he can't stop himself, can't catch his breath. He claws at his throat, fingers scrambling for purchase against the pale column of his neck. His nails rip into it, gouging thin red lines. His dry lips part as he struggles, attempting fruitlessly to deliver even the tiniest amount of air into his parched lungs.

And then suddenly there’s an overwhelming __something__.

The Cracks. Tiny barely noticeable fractures in the façade, thin rivulets of white, white light in the suffocating nothingness. It’s a bright light which burns his retinas, pain rushing through his optic nerves, lighting his mind on fire.

But it’s so fucking beautiful and his heart beat rushes four-fold in his chest – _dadadadum, dadadadum, dadadadum_ – at the miniscule spark of hope that the sight of it inspires. He presses at the edges of the crack with his fingertips, marveling at how solid they feel. More veins than cracks he muses, tracing them gently with the pads of his fingertips, wary that it will cut him, worried that behind the seeming smoothness, there are jagged thorns waiting to rip him apart like rows of shark’s teeth, fangy jaws.

The thought gives way to a silent chuckle, soft spasms which work up his larynx, vibrating against his cotton-tongue. The feeling tightens harshly in his throat. His futile breaths catch against it as a thick haze envelopes his struggling thoughts.

When he finally drifts off, succumbing to the void, it’s with the palm of his hand pressed firmly against the brilliant cracks. 

***

After some time – seconds or millennia he can never be truly certain, his eyes shutter open once more. The light shines brighter than before, like rays of eternal sunshine, bathing his too-pale face in warmth that is so surreal he is uncertain of whether or not he is imagining it.

His fingers tap gently against the white chasms, expecting the same solidity that met them before. Instead, they sink in with little give, as though they are being dragged against lukewarm bathwater. The sensation is strange but overwhelmingly pleasant. His whole body feels as though it has been drawn into an embrace, fingers of light-warmth-comfort flickering up and down his spine. He can practically feel strong arms surrounding him, tucking him in close. His body sags into it and his eyes drift closed once more.

The silence of the nothingness, however, continues to wrack through his body, sending painful shivers down his spine. His fingers tap against the liquid light but there is still no sound to it. It hurts so fucking bad. He sinks in deeper, clawing for _s_ _omething_ – but even in the comforting white, white light there is still absolutely nothing to hold on to. He draws his hand back as though wounded, folding it against his chest.

As he withdraws the comfort shrivels away from his body, leaving behind a shivering mess of a man. Nausea pools low in his gut and high in his throat and he gags. Retching sobs, silent, burst from his parted lips and he folds his arms around his center in an attempt to stave them off – to no avail. The retching continues indefinitely until, exhausted, his brain shuts off and he drifts off once more.

***

The cracks have grown larger every time he dares bring his eyes to them. But he dare not reach out to touch them any longer. The comfort is a lie. The embrace is a lie. The warmth is a lie. The voices which whisper sweet everythings that rattle around in his brain are a lie.

Lies lies lies lies.

He taps four-fold against his thigh. **_Dadadadum. Dadadadum. Dadadadum. DadadaDUM._**

His nails bore harshly into the skin of his leg in an attempt to stifle it. He misses the sound that used to beat in his brain ( _dadadadum, dadadadum)._ At least then there was something to keep the voices at bay ( _“Look what you've done, boy.” “Pay attention to me! Why aren't you paying attention.”)_. At least then there was something to guard him against dark-cold-nothing-nothing-black.

 _“_ _You're nothing,”_ the voices snarl.

_“_ _You deserve this._ _”_

_“_ _You did this to yourself.”_

The voices are new. He recognizes them but he can’t figure out why. They aren’t his own. So many faces, so many voices. None of them are his though. Who is he? The voices send flashes of picture through the darkness. That’s new, too. They’re scrambled though, like looking through mud. There’s muted color and shape and blurs and he can’t tell what he’s seeing. The darkness is in the way, cobwebs; in his eyes, or is it his brain?

The voices are in the way. He strains against it, squints his eyes and his mind, but he can’t decipher it. It’s in code.

_“ _You’re a failure Koschei.”__

_“ _You fucked up.”__

Who is Koschei? Is he Koschei?

_“ _I love you Koschei. Come back to me. Please, please come back to me__ _.”_

How? It’s all he’s ever known – the darkness, the beat four-fold ( _dadadadum, dadadadum, dadadadum)_ so viciously torn from him, the silence. He doesn’t remember specifics. He doesn’t remember anything, except the tapping tapping tapping tapping and the distant warmth of the ever expanding crack.

_“ _This is all your fault.”__

_I know,_ his mind screams. His lips part but the sound won’t force itself past his teeth. He swallows it down.

_I know. I know. IknowIknowIknow._

He doesn’t know what he knows. He just does.

***

He gives in, eventually.

He’s too weak to resist the light comfort warmth love. The cracks have sharp edges now. If he leans in too much, it hurts. Sometimes he leans against the cracks just to feel something. The pain is cold.

He stares into the white forever, unblinking. It’s all he lives for. But he can’t die so what’s it matter anyway?

_“ _You’re so fucking weak, Koschei. How could I ever put my faith in you?”__

_I know._

_“ _I miss you Koschei. Why did you leave?”__

The voices are ripping him apart but at least the light is there to hold him together. The embrace feels so familiar. Relic of a long-gone life. How many hundreds of years had it been since he had found himself in the comfort of the embrace of another? He thought he remembered a young man, all fiery passion and warm hands and love and a strong four-fold heartbeat ( _dadadadum)_ , holding him close, telling him that everything would be alright.

_“_ _Nothing will ever be all right, Koschei. Nothing ever will be and it’s all your fault.”_

_I know._

He can dream

***

It’s been much too long. The light beacons him, growing stronger with every ticking tap of his fingers.

_Dadadadum._

 _“ _Come along now. Come along comealong comealong comealongcomealongcomealong__ ** _comealong!_** _”_ The voices scream, firing off at rapid staccato. He attempts to drown them out, digging the heels of his hands into his ears.

” _Comealong.”_

The white is all consuming. There is still nothingness but the darkness has fled. There is no sound but the voices crooning in his mind. He taps his fingers against his temporal bone, _tap tap taptap_ _(_ _dadadadum)_ _._ His eyes are squeezed up tight but the white white white seeps in anyway, searing his corneas. It feels as though something is trying to pry his eyelids open. He squeezes them tighter.

_“ _Come along now.”__

_No._

_“ _Come along Koschei.”__

_No._

_“_ _I needed you Koschei! How dare you leave me to suffer! Leave me to die!”_

_No nonononono._

His eyes spring open, wide. The white is gone, replaced once more by the cold dark nothing black. There’s a thin white crack, spider-webbing gently outward. The voices are gone now. The silence is too much, he thinks. He continues to press his palms to his skull. He misses the warmth. He misses the company…

Tentatively, he reaches a single hand outward toward the tiny crack, brushing fingertips along the thin lines. They flake away like pealing lead paint, widening at the faintest of touches. The warmth funnels back, shooting inward through his veins.

_“ _There’s nothing to worry about Koschei. You’re safe now, I promise.”__

The warmth wraps around Koschei’s limbs, snuggling against the crook of his neck. There’s a sharp tug and then nothing.

 ***

There’s a firm pressure against his temple, unfamiliar, cold and unpleasant. He tries to pry open his eyelids but they refuse to budge. His head throbs but he hears nothing but his own confused, racing thoughts and a voice. It’s not in his head, he thinks… but that’s not possible.

“What the **fuck** are _you_ doing here!”

His mouth falls ajar as though he plans to force an answer past his lips. Instead, golden-warm-home funnels outward, enveloping him totally, and for the first time in a long time he feels safe.

Fire chases though his veins, flying from his fingertips, melting his optic nerves, searing his tongue within his mouth. His brain tells him to scream out but the searing _paint-heat-death_ stifles his voice, grinding it down behind his teeth.

But it soon melts away into soothing, familiar honey, cradling his limbs. Sweet nothings and nonsense whispered into careless ears. An embrace like light, shielding his fragile infant mind from soothsayers and trembling obscenities. The light- _life-hope_ flares out, caressing cheekbones and prodding alien fingers. Skin and organs pull and mold like clay on a potter’s wheel, spinning artfully to completion; short cropped bleach blonde gives way to murky tresses, crystalline amber eyes deepening in tone, frame stretching and broadening, skin bleaching bone-white. Gone – soft baby-like cheeks, rounded planes; in their place, an angular jaw peppered heavily with think black stubble. Feels familiar but not quite the same as live long ago lived. Thick eyebrows and a catch in his throat that feels like a brand new voice that literally itches to be tested out.

His body is lain out on the cold tile, palms – fingers longer and thinner, broaching on gangly but more on the side of bumbling elegance –pressed completely flat. His eyes – pitch with thin rings of black coffee – dart around, falling upon the figures that stand above him. A grin stretches haphazardly across his lips – fuller and pinker than previous – his teeth bared in a fantastic hybrid of snarl and smile.

“I'll reiterate. What the **fuck** are _yo_ _u_ doing here!”

The voice twinges in his brain, familiar but implacable as of yet. Its owner is tall, male. He has short dark hair and hard blue eyes. A heavy set black man flanks him at one side, suit-clad and with his face screwed into a countenance of undeniable displeasure. At his other side is a wiry woman, dark skinned and with a slightly rounded belly. Within progeny dwells, his overactive mind helpfully supplies.

He shoots up, back completely straight. His face turns toward her first, eyes meeting. His torso soon follows, shoulders angled toward her waist. He raises his left hand, palm hovering over the bulge of her stomach, fingertips millimeters away from touching the fabric of her lab coat.

“Hey Rosie,” he says, rubbing his palm against her belly as she staggers back.

“Master.”

He cocks his head to one side, his palm chasing after her.

“Master? That’s strange name to bestow upon a stranger. I mean – I kinda like the ring of it, yanno? _Master_. Master. Mahh-ster. Like a hamster… kinda. A powerful hamster. Y’know the hamsters of Yeata VI are nearly the size of a Mavian Pigbird. I once got one for Theet back at academy. He was so pissed, it chewed up all of his notes on TARDIS piloting. I think he failed his exam out of spite.”

Yeah, no, that gun to temple sensation is rarely pleasant one, unless you’re into that sort of thing. He’s not into gunplay in this incarnation he thinks as a shiver rolls down his exposed spine.

“Quit playing games, Master!”

It’s the leader of the group, something that maybe probably starts with the letter G? or J maybe. He’s gonna go with J. That seems about right?

“Why do you keep calling me that?” he asks, dipping his head to avoid the barrel of the pistol. It catches his tangled curls. “My name is Koscheisolatornalar. Theet always calls me Kos, though. Kosheisolatornalar does seem like kinda mouthful after all – Gallifreyans have strange naming conventions, I'll tell you... Really hard for off-worlders to say… ‘Least that’s what Theet says, he’s fascinated with off-worlders y’know. Wants to leave Gallifrey as soon as possible. I like it on Gallifrey, nowhere else is that beautiful – sweet silver grass, amazing red sky, the Citadel! But I can’t let Theet go alone. He’s never been too good alone – he used to be scared of the dark, did’ya know? Can’t let ‘em go off world all alone, what kinda friend would I be then? Have you seen Theet? Usually he’s with me. He should be here.”

Apparently he gets ramble-y when he’s nervous. That’s new. He used to be pretty sure of himself. How did he get here, anyway? Was Theta in some kind of trouble again? Is that how he regenerated? Had something happened to Theta, too?

Somewhere in the background, the others are arguing.

“Stop it Jack, I think he’s having a mental breakdown!”

“He deserves it!”

“Will someone explain what the fuck’s going on!”

“That’s the Master, one of the worst monsters this side of anywhere!

“I think he actually doesn’t remember us, Jack! You’re scaring him.

Koshchei’s on the floor again, his knees shaking. Moisture pools on his cheeks and his gangly fingers slick through his black locks. A spasm wracks up his spine and his entire body trembles. He cries out over the muddled voices – 

“Where’s Theta? Please, I beg you, don’t do anything to Theta.”


End file.
